One Way Or Another
by whimsycality
Summary: Clary's been working at this Haunted House for years and has never been scared by anything except people's bad costumes. But this year she's beginning think there's something real, and evil, out to get her.


Clary has always loved Halloween. Every year she goes all out on her costume, and often helps design Simon's as well. She loves decorating their house, just the right balance of terrifying and funny to keep the kids entertained. Ever since she turned sixteen and started feeling awkward trick or treating, she's worked at her favorite local haunted house, in charge of decorations and effects.

But this year has been _weird_.

Most days Clary would label herself as a curious skeptic. She doesn't really believe in the supernatural, but she enjoys a good urban legend as much as the next New Yorker and she's always willing to give a friend the benefit of the doubt if they tell her they experienced something creepy. Well, except Simon. Simon is the hypochondriac of ghost hunters. He _always_ believes something's haunting him, or that he spotted a new cryptid on the subway, or the new guitar pick he bought is cursed.

But things have been happening at the Haunted House. And not things that she, or Raven, their personal mad scientist, have cooked up. Things that she can't explain no matter what rational logic she applies. And they only seem to be happening to her.

First it was the face in the mirror. And not the trick mirror in room three. The employee bathroom mirror, one of two rooms in the whole building where everything spooky is banned. All blurred and distorted, somehow in front of her face until she blinked and it was gone.

Then it was the paint set. She'd been in the doll room, doctoring her creepy little subjects to look like they'd been killing each other, and when she turned around all her paint bottles had been squeezed out onto the floor, a sticky mess on the carpet she had no idea how to clean up and ended up covering in a pile of disassembled doll parts like some sort of horrific burial mound.

Now she's in the public bathroom,preparing the tub for the dry ice, and flinching at every strange sound. Which is stupid because she's in a haunted house on Halloween—every sound is _supposed_ to be strange.

Someone touches her hair and she spins around, fully prepared to ream out Dustin, their resident prankster, only to find no one there. She glares into the dim hallway outside the bathroom, shoulders tight with tension. "If someone is fucking with me, you're going to learn why Mr. Highmark had nightmares for a straight week when he was an asshole to Simon in sixth grade."

Clary doesn't indulge often, but her pranks are _legendary_ , and she was the sole reason Simon hadn't spent all of middle school being mercilessly bullied.

No one answers and nothing moves and she lets out a frustrated breath before turning back to the bathtub, ready to add the dye that will make the mist an ominous shade of pale green. She knows she's not imagining it when she feels fingers running up her arm and she stares at her bare skin, all the fine red hair standing on end because there is still no one there and she is officially freaked the fuck out.

The bathroom door slams shut and she opens her mouth to scream bloody murder. She has watched _a lot_ of horror movies and she is not going out like that. The scream catches in her throat because the slammer of said door is an actual person, a really, _really_ hot person, and Clary is definitely not screaming in front of her.

The girl looks irritated, but her face smooths into a smile when she meets Clary's eyes. "Hey haunted girl, love the costume."

Clary looks down at her tattered white linen outfit with a smile, distracted enough by the compliment to briefly forget her fear. She hadn't been sure anyone would recognize Capable, given that it's been two years since the movie came out. But she loves dressing up as fellow redheads, and you can't go wrong with a badass post-apocalyptic engineer.

"Thanks!" she says, looking back up, and then her brain catches up with her hormones and she narrows her eyes. "What do you mean, 'haunted girl'?"

"There's a ghost haunting you," the girl says confidently, not at all like she's saying the most ridiculous thing Clary's ever heard. "And if we don't get rid of it, it could kill you."

Clary blanches, a sick feeling in her stomach as the rational, skeptic New Yorker in her battles with everything she's seen and felt today and the absolute surety in the girl's' voice. She's about to open her mouth to express her doubts when the invisible hand from earlier surges out of the water and wraps around her wrist.

She can almost see it this time, a flicker of grey flesh, and then all of the dry ice she had carefully stacked on the edge of the tub falls in with a splash and she can't see anything, coughing as toxic clouds of CO2 surround her face. Her eyes are burning and her throat is raw when the girl yanks her back, away from whatever or whoever is trying to kill her.

The girl pulls her out of the bathroom into the hallway—first rule of dry ice is don't use it a confined space and Clary is now questioning the wisdom of even having a door on the bathroom, given that it's never used for its intended purpose anyways. She can't stop coughing and the girl hands her a water bottle. Clary takes a long swig and then makes a face, almost spitting it back out again.

"What the hell is in this?"

"It's holy water, and a few other things," the girl says with a shrug and an apologetic smile. "It's not going to be useful with your ghost problem, and it can't hurt you. Just tastes a little funky."

"Who _are_ you?" Clary asks, deeply curious about this beautiful woman who carries around holy water and talks about ghosts like she fights them every day.

The girl smiles, teeth bright against the vibrant red of her lips. "Isabelle Lightwood, arcane specialist."

Clary mouths the words to herself, arcane specialist. It sounds like something she and Simon would include in their graphic novel and she has a sudden vivid image of Isabelle in tight leather, holding a whip. She blushes, looking away from Isabelle who's already far too attractive in the black shorts, blue t-shirt, and flag themed jacket that make up her America Chavez costume.

She stares down at the water bottle in her hand and forces herself to take another drink, her throat still dry and sore. "So, uh, what does an arcane specialist _do_ exactly? And how did you know I was being haunted?"

"We keep an eye on hotspots and this place has a long history," Isabelle tells her, then rolls her eyes. "What kind of idiot sets up a haunted house in _an actually haunted house_?"

"The kind of idiot who, like most of the world, doesn't know ghosts are real," Clary responds dryly, no longer hesitating to meet Isabelle's gaze. "Just like all of us employees. The only spooky things here are supposed to be us and the stuff we set up."

Isabelle grins at her. "Fair point. Now, do you want to get rid of this ghost, haunted girl?""

"My name is Clary," she says, using the wall to push herself to her feet. "And I want to kick the ghost's ass."


End file.
